


your roots in me, my ink in you

by janthonyashtoreth, kaermorons



Series: Ink and Flowers [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Human, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is GNC, Gaslighting, Graphic depictions of injuries and recovery, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Panic Attacks, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Slow Burn, Stalking, cw: gabriel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-01-25 07:14:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21352306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janthonyashtoreth/pseuds/janthonyashtoreth, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaermorons/pseuds/kaermorons
Summary: Flower Shop/Tattoo Parlor AU. Based pretty much entirely on the wonderful mind ofjanthonyashtoreth. Expect slow burn.LEFT INCOMPLETE 12DEC2020.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Past Crowley/Original Male Character
Series: Ink and Flowers [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1552609
Comments: 74
Kudos: 285
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [janthonyashtoreth](https://janthonyashtoreth.tumblr.com) for letting me build on your beautiful Ink and Flowers AU, your art is awe-inspiring and beautiful!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where two idiots meet in Soho

Rain never seemed to end in London, regardless of the day or events planned. Anthony sat miserably under his tarp as yet again, another market day was destroyed by Briton weather. His plants trembled in the chilly wind and dipped occasionally as fat raindrops hit their verdant leaves. He sighed for seemingly the thousandth time that day, and gave a short wave to another simliarly-sodden market vendor. Three trips back and forth to his pickup and he was on his way back to the shop, unsuccessful day weighing on his shoulders once more.

“Lovely day, eh, Marcelle?” Anthony snarked at the ficus riding on the floor of the passenger side. “We’ll get you a nice flat one day.”

Obviously, the plant said nothing.

Days like these happened more often than not. Anthony ran his small local nursery in a three-story building in Mayfair, bought with the settlement money from his father’s wrongful death suit over ten years ago. More often than not, he used it as an excuse to do something productive with his newfound time and freedom, having moved from a farm town in the south to London proper before old dad could even be cold in the ground.

He unloaded multiple plants back into the shop, rearranging the multiple racks that held them until he was satisfied with the airflow. He found it ironic that he would run a nursery but not necessarily try to sell any of his plants, but stranger things in London have happened. Anthony checked on Levi upstairs, and found him wrapped around the heat lamp rather than the driftwood tree he’d gotten for Christmas. “Cheek.”

There was a note waiting for him by the register, most likely left from his shop assistant Marina. _ ‘Had to leave, baby on its way, delivery for 3pm in cutting room, address on pot!!!’ _Anthony shouted out a laugh in the empty nursery. Marina’s wife had been ready to give birth for almost a week by this point, and he didn’t blame Marina for leaving the shop unattended. He’d have to book it to make the delivery appointment, but was speeding through to SoHo with a smile on his face the whole time.

The wedding was meant to take place at a small church in the rare part of SoHo that stayed relatively quiet, and the flowers would keep beautifully through the night to the next day, due to the residual humidity in the area from the rain. Anthony said goodbye to the beautiful bastard roses almost gratefully. Why Londoners wanted roses for every damned event, he had no idea. They would pay out the nose for his specialty lavender roses, though, and who was Anthony to deny profitable propagation?

As he walked back to his pickup, the rain ceased for a beautiful moment and the sun shone through, illuminating the afternoon streets with that beautiful wet reflection he normally only saw on the floor of the greenhouse. It was then that he noticed the brown sign advertising ‘Permanent Arts and More’ above his head. The church’s quiet and reserved atmosphere nearly made him forget he was in SoHo. Land of depravity and flamboyance. In SoHo, it wasn’t so much that one couldn’t see the forest for the trees, but the streetlights for the neon signage.

He found himself peering in through the shop windows, trying to gauge the bustle inside. In fact, there was none. Either the shop was closed, or…

His hand made it to the handle on the door entirely without his conscious involvement, turning with surprising ease (so it _ was _ open) and opening to a softly fragrant interior. His chilly clothes demanded entrance to the warm and dry place, more hushed than a library and more devotional than the church he had just been in.

Art covered most surfaces in the shop, on the mismatched loungers in the sitting area, in great piles on the coffee table normally reserved for artists’ portfolios, even on the poured concrete floor beneath his work boots. Little sketches on napkins and regular printer paper, right next to boundless piles of expensive-looking sketchbook paper. A large white mural covered most of the ceiling, giving the illusion the place was much larger than it actually was. But the mural wasn’t entirely white, no. There were many soft shapes painted throughout it, hidden away in the matching hues. Clouds, he reckoned. 

Music didn’t play through hidden speakers as Anthony imagined most tattoo parlors would have, but there was a rhythmic song to the place regardless. It seemed to sigh alongside him as he took it in, sunglasses fogging up as they struggled to adjust to the interior. He removed them momentarily as he looked around in awe, the smell of ink and sterile materials mingling with some kind of incense and paper. Anthony noticed a fat orange cat eyeballing him from a perch near the ceiling. Neither blinked. 

“I’ll be just a minute!” Called a voice somewhere from the back of the shop, its source hidden from some secret hallway obstructed by the massive amount of artwork gracing every wall. Anthony found himself somewhat frozen on the spot, the reality of his situation hitting him at once: he’d just wandered into a random tattoo shop in the heart of SoHo, he didn’t even have one tattoo, not a single piercing on his body, he was covered in mostly sweat and quite a fair amount of soil, which he realizes he must have trailed in from outside…

He hardly had a moment to prepare himself when a fluffy white mop of hair poked from around a corner, preceded by the sound of wheels clattering along the concrete. “Can I help you?” The mop said. 

“I er…” Anthony was at a loss for words, and gestured uselessly around at the piles and piles of - oh that is a lovely sketch of a peony…

“I normally only take appointments on Thursdays, but I’m quite free as it is currently.” The mop stood, and Anthony took in the warm neutral sweater, comfy but not frumpy, the soft, worn corduroy trousers, the shiny loafers. He was a bit flabbergasted at this complete 180 on his typical idea of a tattoo artist. Maybe this wasn’t a tattoo shop at all…?

His doubts were dashed away as the mop came closer. The sunglasses did nothing to prevent the shock of bright blue staring up at him, three small silver hoops in each ear lobe glinting in the light. The man had a strange shadow on his jawline, but Anthony could only gawk at how absolutely adorable this man was. “I wanted to get a tattoo!” Anthony blurted out.

The shop, and time itself, seemed to hold its breath. The mop, accompanied by light blonde eyebrows, looked surprised as Anthony was given a once-over. “Have you had any work done previously?” Mr. Cute Sweater asked.

Work? “Oh, uh, no.” Anthony’s grasp on the Queen’s English seemed to slip further away by the moment. “Nothing on me. Nope.” He managed to shut himself up before he embarrassed himself further.

“Hm,” the artist said, looking over him with a more critical eye this time. “Well we can do a consult today and talk concept and price…” he offered this to Anthony almost shyly. “I’m so sorry, is it too bright in here?”

Anthony stared dumbly at the man before realizing he was talking about his sunglasses. “Ah! No. You’re perfect. It’s perfect. I’m totally fine. These are just.” He waved his hands at the glasses. “I get stares.” Whatever compelled Anthony to share that intimate detail provided no explanation, just a smug smile from his subconscious.

“Stares?” The artist asked, tilting his head to one side. Anthony almost melted at the action, panicked affection bubbling in his chest like a pot of soil with too much water. He raised a shaking hand to his face, and removed the glasses at once, forcing himself to meet the man’s eyes, seemingly more vibrant without the shades on. 

“It’s called iris colomba. The iris isn’t a perfect circle so it sometimes looks like cat eyes or…”

“Snake eyes.” The hushed tone of the artist makes Anthony pause. “It doesn’t hurt, does it?”

“No, never. I’m just the same as you.” It had been a lifelong speech of Anthony’s, trying to dissuade fearful people but eventually succumbing to hiding behind glass itself. “Do they bother you?” The question seemed to hold more weight than he’d bargained for, and he only realized later that he was worried about the response.

“Absolutely not. You’re stunning. They’re stunning.” Both of them seem to blush at that, looking away for the first time. “So, a tattoo?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The digestion of the meeting in Soho.

Anthony Crowley found it astonishing how easily he could talk to Azra. Normally he kept himself closed off, unapproachable, and deeply personal, but Azra Fell had the innate ability to put others at ease, a gift Anthony had never thought possible to possess in the company he kept. There was hardly a person who knew his middle name that wasn’t a lawyer or accountant. This was important, being kept alone had been a goal for the man since he was a child. However, reclining on an old, worn sofa in Azra’s shop, Anthony found himself at peace telling the other man about intimate details of his life.

“...and then I got a heft lump sum from the company, and I hauled ass out of Brighton, never to return since.” He may be closed off, but there was always a dramatic window kept cracked open.

Azra, the whole time, had hardly been following the rules of the corporate “active listener”. A documentarian at heart, he was scribbling away at a notepad Anthony hadn’t seen a moment before it’d simply appeared in his hand. He couldn’t see what was being written, or more likely doodled, judging by the scattered mess of art all over the shop, but Azra’s face seemed to soften whenever Anthony would gloss over the harder, sharper parts of his life. The artist’s sleeves were rolled up, or were attempting to be, as the once-endearing looseness of the sweater only sought to keep the fresh air from off of Azra’s forearms.

“Wassat you got?” Anthony asked, leaning forward and peering into Azra’s torso, catlike golden eyes raking over the lines of text on the wrist of one arm, a lifelike feather on the inner forearm of the other.

“It’s a quote by Oscar Wilde, and this...is a quill.” Azra set down the sketchbook to provide a better vantage. So strange that these two shut-ins should display their scars so readily to the other; the energy in the air was sparked with familiarity, a past life reaching through time to pull them closer. 

“May I?” Anthony reached forward and took Azra’s wrist in hand, turning it this way and that. Were his eyes just a little higher up the artist’s features, he would have seen the blush creeping back across his cheeks as it had before at their awkward greeting. “_ I can resist everything except temptation. _” He murmured aloud, tracing the loops and swirls of script with one dirt-stained finger. An imperceptible shudder raced through Azra’s body, starting at that touch, but Anthony made no remark on it.

“It’s a bit cheeky, don’t you think?” Azra said, gently and reluctantly taking his wrist back. Anthony shook his head.

“Don’t regret what you choose. You’ll make me nervous.” He joked easily with Azra, who tittered out a soft laugh that made Anthony’s vision blur just a moment.

“I shall try my best not to make you nervous.”

* * *

Anthony practically floated back to his flat in Mayfair, just above the shop below. His phone quacked - Marina’s ringtone - with a message. ‘Meet Aria Wren! We three are all safe and sound, visit when you can luv.’ Attached to the message were over a dozen photographs of the three of them: Marina, Aember, and their squishy little baby Aria. Anthony giggled uncontrollably, almost in tears. He’d never admit it out loud but he always loved babies and children, welcomed them in his shop and let them poke at his face and gawk at his eyes ceaselessly. Being an object of fascination rather than repulsion never didn’t fill his chest with warmth.

As he put away laundry from that day, he thought. _ Perhaps I’m so emotional over babies because I was never allowed to be a child myself. _ It was a dark thought, but one that he couldn’t seem to find a mistruth in. He glanced in the hallway mirror and caught sight of himself: sad, lonely eyes, two dull copper irises with slashed pupils. They were held aloft by persistent dark circles below and thin red eyebrows above. His face lacked color to it, cheeks sharing a pallor with a museum bust, features just as carved and just-this-side of gaunt. His hair seemed to have the only life his head could manage, flopping carelessly in every direction as it always has. He’d been growing it out for the last ten years, and it didn’t seem to want to grow past his shoulders. The deep wave in his locks did not represent the actual effort Anthony put into it (none). As a child, his hair had been shorn closely to his head, though he had always been forced into a cap of some kind that his father could pull over his strange eyes around strangers and company alike. Only here, in the sanctity of his home, could he find comfort enough to take off his mask.

_ And apparently, in front of strange artists you hardly know, _ a sly, smug voice added rather unhelpfully in his mind. The thought made him blush just a little, and his introspection could wait another day.

* * *

Azra attempted cleaning his shop, something only done after a particularly good bottle of red wine or in the fit of an anxiety attack. His class at the gym didn’t start for another three hours, and the most interesting guest in his shop had come and gone. Pile after pile homogenized into one massive mountain of sketches, nearly at Azra’s waist. “Oh dear,” he muttered to himself, disassembling the fire hazard into several smaller trip hazards.

A besotted sigh escaped his mouth for the hundredth time since the man - _ Anthony - _had left the shop. He was being ridiculous. He seemed to fall for every customer that passed his threshold, but this one was different. He offered to share a vulnerability Azra couldn’t ignore. He burned with passion and uniqueness at a temperature Azra could hardly stand to look at for longer than a few seconds.

And what a being to look at! Thin but not skinny, arms corded with hidden strength leading to calloused, dirty hands that had known work and nature for longer than a man at his age could know conventionally. There had been a smudge of dirt on his forehead that Azra had found so endearing, he would have fainted on the spot had he not been caught in the trance of those golden eyes. Like a falcon, a tiger poised to strike, a hypnotic cobra eyeing him up. Azra tugged at his sweater, neck and chest flushed with heat suddenly. He tried to think of something else, but the unbidden traitorous memory of Anthony’s hips swaying ahead of him to the bohemian sitting area dared to rend him unconscious on the spot.

He took a seat after his knees started to shake and buckle, declaring the rest of the day a wash, and his whole life a queer disaster from the moment he’d met Anthony.

He had known his sexuality from a young age. Love was love was love, and his parents would never understand him had he come out to them. It was easier for them to simply infer that he was _ a sinner _and simply move out as soon as possible. Art school painted his life with color and expression, so different from his childhood. Beneath art and furniture and windowpanes sprouted rainbow flags and queer-positive art of every shape and size. He’d grown up in a gray room with no personality, a window that looked out on a gray street, an empty desk (lest he tempt the eventual shouting match) and a simple bedspread. Nothing adorned the walls, save a severe-looking cross above his headboard. Shuddering at the thought, he began to pace the shop once more, settled on making a cuppa.

Hearing Anthony’s rough upbringing must have brought back these memories. Normally it took a rather nasty person at the market or Heaven forbid, reading the comments on his art online, for him to grow quiet and reserved as he was currently. He hummed some tune in his head and held the angel-wind mug in his hand, almost burning his palms until he let go. He let the tea steep for far too long, and overcompensated the strong flavor with milk and sugar. “Oscar!” He called in a high voice, wanting his kitty closer. On cue, his fat orange friend padded into the kitchen, and Azra carried his tea up to his flat after locking up for the day. “What did you think of him, hm?” Azra asked his cat, knowing he’d get an answer. Oscar has been Azra’s since he was a kitten, and they understood one another better than anyone else. “Was he nice to you?”

Oscar meowed and rubbed his head on Azra’s calf. Azra smiled. “Me too. I can’t wait for him to come back. I sound silly, don’t I, kitty.” He didn’t think it was unusual for people to talk to their pets, and Oscar seemed to always know what he was saying, anyway.

“Do you think he’ll come back?” Azra asked. “I know I’ll be sketching ideas for the next two weeks. I’ve never been so inspired by one single person before. Besides you, of course, my love.” Oscar seemed satisfied with that answer.

The rest of the afternoon was lost to sketching, tea, and perhaps a few glasses of wine. His proximity to the computer meant he was googling a few more things than necessary.

> ** _Roofing manufacturer settles with family before wrongful death lawsuit in factory collapse_ **
> 
> _ AUGUST 2009 _
> 
> _ “Avoidable mistakes could have avoided orphaning a child.” _
> 
> _ The legal representative for the sole surviving family member of Lucien Crowley said those words in front of the Brighton County and Family Court House. The terms of the settlement were not disclosed to present media outlets, despite the widespread publicity of the event. _
> 
> _ Two days before Christmas 2008, a machine which pressed rock pulp into roofing shingles failed inspection but was allowed to continue manufacturing. Less than three hours after regular operations began, the machine over-pressed a set of shingles on the line, sending shards of rock and sparks in every direction, but most importantly, straight into Lucien Crowley. The impact from the explosion killed him instantly, orphaning his only child and family member. _
> 
> _ The company claims no responsibility in the accident, as any company would, but seemed to settle with the family’s representative rather agreeably… _

Azra shook himself, couldn’t read any more. He felt it was a blatant invasion of Anthony’s privacy, to read into something so personal and yet so censored. He closed his laptop rather abruptly, waking Oscar from his nap. “It’s nothing, dear boy. If he wanted to tell me, he’d tell me.” The words Anthony had said rang in his head like an echo.

_ ‘Old dad never saw me as anything but a nuisance, a noisy pest in his house, eating his food and getting underfoot when least convenient… I do suppose we all die lonely, I’ll be used to it by the time my number’s up…’ _

More pacing to be done, Azra left out the back door to take a walk, a childish effort to clear his head. That soft, sad look on Anthony’s face couldn’t be cleared with anything less than a lobotomy at this point. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one with the second impressions.

Having come off of the high of meeting baby Aria Wren for the first time, Anthony was rather surprised to find himself in front of A. Z. Fell’s Permanent Arts and More once again. He’d only been a few blocks from SoHo anyway; the hospital validated visitor parking for up to nine hours, so he had decided to take a walk in the rare, nice weather. His hand rested on the door handle, so he pushed forward and stepped inside.

This time was different than two days before. Music - actual, real music, some bluesy swing number in Italian - played from speakers unseen, and a few more people waited in the shop. A girl with thick spectacles waited behind the counter displaying hand blown glass body jewelry, and watched Anthony with the same intensity as the orange cat had before. Everyone had some kind of drink in hand, be it coffee or tea or wine, in one man’s case, and were perfectly at ease, smiles on the faces of all. Anthony was no exception, and broke his gaze from the woman on duty to look around at the art on the walls, which had changed places again in the 48 hours since he’d been there.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” The woman asked, not unpleasantly but certainly not as warmly as Azra had. Anthony pushed hair back from his face, hands surprisingly clean for once. “Or are you more content to look?”

He didn’t seem to know the answer. “Just looking, for now,” he mumbled in response. “Is Azra in?” He didn’t know why asking after the man had made his heart skip a few beats, but the knowing nod from the shop worker made him blush.

“He’s with a client but should be finishing up soon. Would you like a drink…?” She trailed off the question, ending it in such a way that he blurted out his name. “Anthony. I’m Anathema. You seem like a coffee person.” She whisked off behind a wall without a word. In fact, Anthony _ was _ a coffee person, most of the time, but some days were tea days, he just didn’t feel like tea very much that day. He played with beverages rather fast and loose, you see.

He kept his sunglasses on as he walked around the shop, seeking art pieces that sported a small, looping, AZFL signature near the lower right corner of the piece at hand. Anthony smiled whenever he saw them, for they reminded him of handwritten love letters. Meeting her cue to witness Anthony’s growing blush, Anathema returned with a cup of coffee, one sugar. He sputtered out his thanks and wandered aimlessly, losing himself in old Italian music and art.

“Anathema!” Anthony’s heart absolutely _ leaped _ when he heard Azra’s voice calling down the hall. His ears turned a very dark shade of crimson and he looked longingly toward the source. “I need you to do the...the grammar?”

“Instagram, Azra. Instagram.” Anathema practically stomped down the hall, and Anthony nearly combusted in affection, almost squeezing his cup of coffee all over his hands.

“Yes, well, you’re much better at it than I, and well, you can handle the rest can you?” That mop of shocking white hair showed itself, and Anthony wanted to sink into the concrete beneath his feet. “Anthony, is that you?” Oh no.

“Azra. Was in the area. Hope you’re not too busy, should probably get going, truck at the hospital, don’t like to keep it waiting. Wonderful art. What’s the Z stand for?” He sputtered, rocking back and forth like an arcade fighter. _ Flight or fight, indeed_.

“I...wh...Zachary.” Azra said, face changing into many emotions before settling on something soft and happy. “Aziraphale Zachary Fell. An angel and a name of God. And well. Fell.” He shrugged. “Suppose you didn’t want to know all that.”

Anthony shook his head, rather breathless at just being around Azra again. “Aziraphale. Quite a mouthful, that.” He nodded, acknowledging the stupidity of his mouth again. “I like Azra best.”

Had Anthony been any more cognizant of others, and not focused on the losing battle with his blood flow, he would have seen Azra’s responding blush. Azra looked up at him through golden-blonde eyelashes. “Me, too. I’m glad that you...that you like. Azra. Me. My name.”

There was a very long, awkward silence between the two of them, which Anathema joyfully watched in secret at the end of the hall.

“Are you alright? You said you were at the hospital…” Azra looked worriedly up at Anthony. 

“No, no. ‘M perfect. One of my friends just had a baby.” Azra watched in delight as Anthony’s entire face lit up at the mention. “She’s a gorgeous little potato, that.”

“Oh, that’s so wonderful!” Azra clasped his hands together near his chest. He was wearing a new sweater that day, some horrific blend of blue, purple, black, and green yarn, with sleeves up to his elbows, showing off the quill and quote on his forearms. _ Of course his sleeves would be rolled up, he’d just been working on a client. _

“Whole day’s been wonderful so far.” Anthony grinned helplessly down at Azra, heart beating wildly in his chest. “Got to see you.” He cursed his mind as Azra’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I, er… you have a busy day today?” The group in the sitting area had filed out not too long ago, after their friend had finished up in the back with another artist.

“No, no. Just finished up my last appointment of the day. Might have some more walk-ins, but Thursdays are pretty slow. No bachelor parties, and uni kids don’t normally want to get work done midweek.” Azra says, trying to just _ fucking relax _ in front of Anthony for _ one second_. “You? Busy, I mean.”

“I closed the shop until Marina wanted to come back to work. I’ve got a pretty flexible schedule.”

“Like a gymnast, I’d imagine. Flexible.” Azra’s hands fluttered up by his shoulders, simultaneously signaling whatever he thought ‘flexible’ was in sign language, and ‘I’m an idiot’ at the same time.

“Yeah. Pretty much just taking care of the plants on my own until then. Don’t really fancy sitting in a humid shop all alone in Mayfair for a few months.”

“I’d visit.” Azra said, quite forcefully. Anathema wanted to record all this for blackmail purposes but graciously did not. “I mean. You wouldn’t be too alone, what with customers.”

“You’re a business owner, you know customers aren’t really proper company.” Anthony said, trying to keep cool under the hot force of Azra’s affirmation.

“Not all of them, no. Some are rather a delight, I find.” There it was again. That bloody ‘come hither’ look from under those _ bloody _ eyelashes again. Anthony was going to have a heart attack for absolutely no reason, and it’d be old Blue Eyes’ fault, surely.

“You free for drinks tonight?” Anthony said, trying to sound cool but instead sounding what Anathema would call ‘lovesick crackhead-esque’.

“I. I. I may be.” Azra said, looking nervous and hesitant for the first time. “The shop doesn’t close for another…”

“You’re free for drinks, Azra. Go.” Anathema spoke up for the first time. “I can mind the shop.”

“But you only just got your certification!” Azra protested, and Anthony felt his heart sink a little bit.

“Yet I’m still certified in the County of London.” She said back, obviously not intimidated by her boss. “I can handle it. Trust me.”

Azra mulled it over in his head, and sighed. He finally smiled up at Anthony. “It seems I have an opening for you.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The drunkening

It was Soho. There was a fair chance that if you threw a stone hard enough in any direction, it’d hit a pub or a bar that was open. Anthony and Azra picked one at random, both of them pleased with the quiet and private atmosphere. “I’ll grab a round. Preferences?” Anthony asked.

“Something sweet?” Azra said, walking backwards to find a table while still making eye contact. “No gin, please.” He smiled, and Anthony bounced to the bar.

They sat at a table near the back, as removed from the other patrons as possible. They both grinned at one another nervously, both bubbling with excitement. “So do you like children?” Azra asked. “You’re obviously excited about your friend’s baby.”

Anthony blushes at being read so easily. “I do,” he admitted. “They smell nice. I never had any siblings.”

“I do. Four. They’re...a bit of a nightmare, to be honest.” Azra sipped on his drink. “All named for angels like me. We were all adopted.”

“Adopted?” Anthony hid his frown.

“It’s a bit of a sad story. I was abandoned as a baby in front of a church, and the Fells had already taken in my four siblings, and they had the room.” Azra shrugged.

“I know how that feels. It was just me and my dad for seventeen years. Mum left when I was three, don’t remember her much,” he lied. They both drank in silence for a little bit. “When’s your birthday, then?” Anthony asks. 

“The note I was left with said May 19th, so...May 19th.” He smiles. “You?”

“December 4th.”

“Not too far away, then.” Seeing as September had just started, it seemed a bit of a silly thing to say. “Plans for your birthday yet?”

“Nah, nah. I don’t really celebrate. Marina and Aember, her wife, are usually the only ones who remember, anyway.”

“What do you do for fun, then?”

“Wander into shops in SoHo, it seems.” Anthony ribbed him sweetly. “To wandering into shops in SoHo.” He raised his glass to Azra’s, and they cheered. 

“To SoHo.” Azra laughed and drank deeply, breathing out his mouth and smiling at Anthony.

They talked a little more, getting to know one another. “Look at us. I’m a recovering insurance agent, you’re a med school drop out, we make a strange pair.” Anthony said.

This made Azra laugh loudly, carefree. Anthony jolted with a start. “Wassat?” He asked, peering closer to Azra across the table.

“What’s what?” Azra asked, sipping the dregs of his drink daintily, almost coyly. “Oh, this?”

Anthony’s heart stopped as a little pink tongue poked out between those plush lips. A small silver ball popped into existence, rather obscenely, in his opinion. All his breath left his lungs in a punched-out noise he didn't manage to cover up in time. “You have a tongue piercing.” He stated dumbly. His face was on fire. He had never thought he would like something like that so much. _ It’s probably because of who’s attached to the tongue, _ his mind supplied unhelpfully. 

Azra only blinked at him. Oh he _ was _ being coy after all. “Took some getting used to. But it’s nice. Now, you don’t have any piercings or any work done at all?” Azra’s curiosity bled through with some kind of heated desire, confidence boosted by his drink.

“N-no. You look like you need another drink.” Anthony banged his head on the low-hanging lamp above the table, and caught his thigh on the corner getting up. “Shots?” He asked, voice high and breathless. “No gin.”

“Bring it on.” Azra smirked.

While waiting on his drinks, Anthony absentmindedly put his hair up with a tie he found in his pocket. His jeans were so tight, it was practically the only thing he could put in there. With his hair off his neck, he felt his body temperature cool down a bit. He could manage to think about the tongue ring only if he didn’t imagine it as _ Azra’s tongue ring _ , otherwise his brain would lead him down a dangerous train of thought, ending with the pointedly simple question of _ what would that little silver bead feel like on every inch of my body? _

He shivered, and not from being cold. He wove his fingers around the two shot glasses and second round of their original drinks, and walked back carefully. The more he thought about not spilling their drinks, the less he had to concentrate on not getting ridiculously horny twenty minutes into drinks with Azra. “Heeeere we are.” He announced as he set them all down. “Not a drop lost.”

Azra clapped like Anthony had performed some trick. Anthony, flustered by even that kind of praise, gave a little bow and sat down, looking back at the bar as another group laughed raucously.

It was now Azra’s turn to feel as though time had slowed to a halt. With Anthony’s hair up, it showed off the long column of his neck, pale as snow, but dotted with constellations of freckles. His hands ached to touch, lips tingled as the urge to kiss each and every one grew. Even his ears - bless his ears - were freckled, all along the top shell to a very cheeky one in the middle of his lobe, asking to be admired. Anthony swallowed absently, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. Azra didn’t realize his mouth was hanging open until he almost bloody drooled on the table. He covered up his lusty attitude by taking hold of the shot. “To SoHo again?”

“What about to good company, even if they’re customers?” Anthony smirked.

“The best company.” Azra countered.

“The best company it is, then.” They clinked glasses and downed the sharp schnapps as one. Azra’s mind buzzed horribly with the loud, intrusive thought of _ this is exactly what Anthony’s mouth tastes like right now_. He almost choked, if it weren’t for the last shred of dignity he possessed.

“I want to know your middle name. You know mine.” Azra gasped, still catching his breath. His mouth was forced into a smile, the sourness of the shot making his lips curl.

Anthony held his hand out across the table. “Anthony J. Crowley.” He smiles.

“The J is…?”

“Just Jay. My dad kept calling me AJ all my life, _ hated _ it.”

“I shall only call you Anthony, then.” Azra vowed.

“And I shall only call you Azra, unless I’m cross with you.”

“Alright, Ms. Bennett.” Azra laughed, looking rather pleased with himself. “Hopefully I shall never make you cross.” He lifted his drink to Anthony. “To Jane Austen.”

“Dear old Jane.” Anthony agreed.

They toasted many, many more times than a first date would call for. They laughed louder and louder with each other through the night. As their table filled with more empty glasses than ones with drink, they both grew bolder. 

“I was thinking of a million little ideas for tattoos for you.” Azra admits. “Haven’t stopped thinking about you for two days. Thinking of tattoos. Tattoos for you.” He stumbled. 

“Like what?” Anthony asked, smiling blearily at Azra. “No. Show me what you have. I am being a _ demon- _dema-demanding customer.” He laughed at his own trip.

“Right now? We can go! I have a key!” Azra declared delightedly. “One more shot, we pay the tab, and then I’ll show you at the shop!” They do just that, walking with the ecstatic stagger of two drunks with a plan.

It took exactly all of their hands to be steady enough to open the door to the shop. Azra was practically steaming from the proximity of Anthony’s body to his, and it was all the other could do to not melt against the smaller man, drawn to his warmth and soft sweater.

Azra flicked only a few lights on as they went, enough to walk Anthony to his main office. The shadows cast along the walls from the art felt romantic and intimate. “Take a seat, if you’d like.” There was a black leather chair in the center of the room, silver detachable arms and legs at the normal places. Azra sat a little too hard on his rolling chair, careening into an antique apothecary hutch and rattling little ink bottles around inside. “Goodness.” He said, a little dazed. He used his feet to bring him back to his desk, which was littered with sketches and materials that seemed to be exactly where he wanted them. “I do hope Anathema didn’t move them…” he muttered to himself. Anthony took a seat, feeling suddenly exposed in front of Azra, who let out a frustrated grunt as he closed another drawer that stuck more than it moved. He overcompensated on his turn once more, and almost got a face full of Anthony’s jeans. Anthony nervously folded his hands over his middle, unsure of the most relaxed-looking posture he could take.

“Can’t find them?” He asked.

“Indeed, I have misplaced them. However, if you still wanted to know what I had in mind, I have another solution.” The last four words of Azra’s ramble left him undeniably curious.

“What’s that entail?” He asked, and attempted to lean forward with his elbow on the arm and his cheek in his hand, coming off looking vaguely ill.

“Well I have many markers. And you have all the real estate I need to show you. If you’d like.” It took Anthony exactly half a second to decipher what Azra was saying.

“Well then. Tell me when to stop stripping.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am sorry for the cliffhanger there but i want to keep each chapter relatively the same length for right now. Inspo for [bumbling Azra](https://janthonyashtoreth.tumblr.com/post/188568326447) and [mush brain Anthony](https://janthonyashtoreth.tumblr.com/post/188392860456) by the wonderful [janthonyashtoreth](https://janthonyashtoreth.tumblr.com)!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one with the body art.

Azra tended to pride himself on his self-control and devotion to his art. He’d seen many bodies in his time as both a medical student and a tattoo artist, so not much in the way of flesh made him nervous anymore. However, as Anthony leaned forward to pull off his shirt, he felt like his heart was going to leap out of his mouth at any moment. It took every ounce of that self-control to keep from gasping aloud when he laid eyes on Anthony’s shoulders. While his neck and ears and cheekbones had been just dusted with freckles, his shoulders told a love story of a pale boy and the sun. There was a faint demarcation around his neckline, most likely where a singlet or loose top had been while working in the sun. He looked up at Anthony, who had removed his sunglasses in the chaos of removing his shirt. Azra noticed, for the first time, the small freckle that lived on the edge of his lower lip. It was rapturously beautiful, and he appreciated his form as only an artist could. 

His body was fit, to say the least. Azra hungrily gave him a vicious once-over, seeing him again in a newer light. “Let’s keep pants on for now. Most of my ideas were up here anyway.” He titters nervously, fingers wiggling. He forces himself to turn away from Anthony before he does anything especially stupid. “Pick your permanence,” he said as he turned back, holding a choice of washable marker or permanent pens. Anthony pointed at the washable marker, swaying a little in his seat.

“Wanna keep em, but. You’re better with commitment. Than me.” He muttered to himself. “You’ll get your mark on me soon enough.” He gave a lopsided smile which made Azra’s heart ache.

“Very well. Let’s get a wiggle on, can’t have you freeze to death in that chair all night.” Azra uncapped his markers, trying not to concentrate too hard on how sad Anthony had talked about commitment. “Firstly, this _ will _ wash off, so…” he grinned and leaned forward, holding a black marker in his hand. “This might be cold, just hold still.” With shaking hands, he pushed Anthony’s hair back from his right ear, exposing that perfect neck, and giving him a great view of a sharp, defined jaw and collarbone. He held his breath as he touched the tip of the marker to just inside of Anthony’s ear, warm knuckles brushing his cheek. He worked in small, short strokes, knowing a flat and strong image wouldn’t look as good as a bespoke sketch. When he was finished, he let out a shaky breath, as did Anthony. “There.” He fumbled for a mirror. “Face tattoos normally don’t suit businesspeople, but you’re a bit of an exception to the rule. Many rules, in fact.” He watched Anthony turn his face this way and that, admiring the small black snake curled and coiled this way and that down his upper mandible. “Look like Levi?” Azra said the name a little nervously, as if he wasn’t sure he’d remembered the name of Anthony’s pet snake.

“Just like her. Little blub of black. I love this. Do more, do more!!” He insists, setting the mirror down in his lab.

“Well.” Azra is pleased beyond words. “I had some ideas for more flora…” he picked up some green and earth-toned markers, and went to work.

Anthony found himself settling into the chair, warmth blooming from his insides as Azra sketched vines of ivy and thick-petaled flowers across his chest, over his shoulder, and down across his ribs and stomach. The leaves were added with care, each of them necessitating concentration. It was silent in the shop, save their breathing. Azra shaded under the leaves and vines and flowers with ease, bringing the image to life on Anthony’s skin. When he sat back to cap the pen, Anthony could only shudder. “Wow.” He murmured. “I can’t believe how amazing this looks. Azra, this is fantastic!”

Azra was used to client praise by that point, but thanked Anthony nonetheless. “You up for more?” He asked, excited. “Was thinking of something along here…” he traced his finger gently along the inside of Anthony’s forearm, making him squirm and giggle. Actually giggle.

“A bit sensitive, there.” Anthony tried to clear his throat to cover up the giggle but it didn’t do much. Azra loved that laugh already. “What were you thinking you wanted to put there?”

“It’s a bit silly, but... let me show you. You can wash it off immediately if you don’t like it.” Azra went to work.

Maybe ten minutes later, he looked up and lightly blew on the design, drying the ink. “There.”

Hidden among bursts of every flower Anthony had words for, and a few he didn’t, lay six words: grow through what you go through. He said nothing as he looked it over, lips falling open in awe. How had Azra been able to read him so easily enough to attribute deep quotes to him? Was he that open with him? Certainly not, for there was so much he hadn’t shared. Were they that similar in souls, then? Had they meant to meet, always? His breath caught in his throat as he choked out, “I love this.” He gave a watery smile to Azra, and gently brushed his fingertips over the edge of a daisy. “I want to keep this.” He was still fairly drunk, but doubted he’d feel any different about the piece than he would sober. “Thank you, Azra.” He held his forearm gently to his chest. 

“No need to thank me, dear.” Azra whispered, patting his hand on Anthony’s thigh comfortingly. In this, just the light of the workspace above them bearing witness, they met each other’s eyes and_ yearned. _Azra was breathless as he gently leaned forward. Anthony made a soft noise that only just made it past his lips, tempting Azra past the point of no return. It was a moment suspended in time, crystalline and glittering.

It seems their frozen nature didn’t agree well with Azra’s shop’s motion sensor lights. They plunged into darkness, into the unknown. Anthony felt a stab of fear knife its way into his chest. Were they going to kiss? Drunk? Anthony wanted Azra more than a one-night drunken fling, and he was pretty sure Azra did too.

There was a rustle of clothing and the lights flickered back on. “Sorry about that.” Azra mumbled, having seemed to come to the same conclusion as Anthony. He kept his distance now. It hurt in both their very bones. 

A few more doodles on Anthony later, Azra let out a great big yawn, stretching his arms and legs. Anthony followed suit, feeling the sleepy-happy-heavy that usually came from a night of heavy drinking. “I should get going. We’re both pretty tired.”

“I hope you’re not planning on driving.” Azra said sharply. “I have the perfectly serviceable sofas for you to rest on until you’ve sobered up. Come.”

Anthony, lovestruck, followed Azra upstairs, and hardly remembered being covered with an unquestionably ugly tartan blanket, before he passed out cold.

* * *

When he awoke, light was filtering faintly through light blue window shades. Anthony felt an overwhelming sense of calm for approximately 0.3 seconds before bolting upright. His head pounded as he looked around, assessing his body for injuries and finding none. His skin felt vaguely uncomfortable but other than that and the headache, he was fine. He breathed deeply. He knew where he was. Snippets of the night before hit him like a line of trucks, one by one. With a shaking hand, he pulled his sleeve back.

‘Grow th—‘

He sucked in a breath and stood up on shaky legs, carried by a wave of shock and panic bleeding through his veins. As he left the shop, he started to run, faster and faster until he made it to his truck.

Panting and sweating bullets, Anthony rested his head on the steering wheel in defeat.

What has he done?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Azra angsts.

It was quiet and cold in Azra’s flat when he walked out. It seemed to grow even quieter and colder as he realized the state of the blankets on the floor. Anthony must have been in a great hurry to leave. It stirred a deep, bitter round of thoughts in Azra as he silently folded the blankets, locked up the shop again, and sat down. Oscar came to comfort him as cats do, by rubbing his head over Azra’s pajama-clad shin until he could get pet. He made his breakfast and tea with an anxious, wobbly smile on his face. How could a crumpled blanket on the floor sting and cut deeper than every rejection in his life?

“Oh Oscar, what have I done!” He cried out to the flat, despairing in the memory of the night before.

_ Such smooth skin, accented by freckles and ink and a few old scars here and there. Bare for the touching, and vulnerable to his hands as he worked… _

Azra shook his head violently, vision going fuzzy for a moment as his glasses became dislodged. White-hot rage and shame filled his gut, and with it, unbidden memories.

* * *

“Aziraphale, were you aware that the terms of our paying for your schooling begin and end with you_ attending school _?” The sharp edges of his mother’s voice cut viciously through the phone line. “And did you think we would support you after you deliberately disobeyed our family teachings? You would even go against the word of the Lord?”

“Mother, I-I…” Azra tried to keep his voice steady as he multitasked. “It was getting a bit too difficult for me.” He tapped his fingers as fast as he could to transfer just a few more pounds into his private account from the one his parents controlled. “You can’t expect to hold onto your flock forever.”

“Would that I could, you would have been able to repent for your sins! You would mar your body with devilish images, and provide handholds for demons to drag you down!” Her voice rose to a shrill point, and Azra winced. “What devil did this to you? I’m sending Gabriel to—”

“No! No. Do not. Do not send any of them out here.” Azra’s voice shook for the first time. “I’ve made my choice, can’t you see? I’m my own person, and you cannot think that I want anything to do with someone who doesn’t even attempt to understand me…”

“I understand just perfectly, Aziraphale. You have chosen a hedonistic, shameful life, one your father and I tried _ so hard _ to keep you from. You saw the cesspool and dove straight into it without thinking about how it would _ hurt _ your family!” Azra felt hot all over, bile in his throat, from the familiar feeling of humiliation he’d grown used to over the years. “I will pray for you. But you will _ never _ be welcome in our fold without proper recompense!” _ I was never welcome in your fold before this, why would I want that now? _

“Mother, if this is your true wish, you have my address, you may send my legal documents there. We shall be severed if you will not see reason that I am my own person.” Azra’s voice was steady only by some grace not his own. His bravery built. “Do not seek to recompense with me without my prior consent.”

* * *

As the day drifted on, Azra found himself in a slump. Food lost its taste, warmth lost its joy, and even art seemed too dull to pursue. He almost cleaned up the markers strewn about his work station with his eyes closed. He couldn’t let himself remember last night. Anthony deserved better than one night. Azra recalled being plunged into darkness, had he even been pulled out of it since then?

Anathema knew better than to ask or say anything about the night previous, by the look on Azra’s face. He was beating himself up more than he ever had before. She had seen him go on bad dates. She had seen him get broken up with at the shop. He always kept that British stiff upper lip and carried on through it. But now, he was sadly sitting at the front of the shop, flipping through his past art and keeping a heartbroken frown on his face. The front desk computer was open on a shop window of pastel hair dyes. Oh no. 

“What happened last night?” Anathema asked finally. Azra let out a big sigh.

“I made a mess of things, dear girl,” he shook his head. “We drank far more than we should have, and I think I may have scared him off.”

“Well what’d you _ do_?”

“I drew all over him with bloody crayolas because I couldn’t find his bloody sketches.” Azra held his head in his hands and groaned. “And I let him sleep on my couch because he was going to drive, and we were both absolutely sloshed even then. When I woke up, he was gone. No note, haven’t gotten a text or anything at all and I’m just an idiot.”

Anathema thought over Azra’s words quietly, patting his shoulder before she spoke. “That’s rough, buddy.” She noticed he had some old black shoes on, instead of his regular loafers. “Are those creepers?” She asked, hopefully distracting him from his bad mood.

“I wanted to wear something new. Well, old.” It’s hardly a justification or an excuse. “Would you be a dear and sterilize an 18 gauge?”

Anathema knew where this was going, and frowned. “You’re not planning on piercing yourself again, are you?”

“I just want to do something new!” Azra whined, spinning around in his chair. “I’ve wanted an industrial for awhile…”

Anathema listened to him lie through a litany of excuses. She had seen him like this before, when some old boyfriend had shown up at the shop and tried to “win him back”. Azra’s perfect blonde hair had been dyed blue, he’d started wearing clothes that didn’t look like they were made for a librarian, and he’d pierced his own nose.

Anathema sterilized the needle and Azra’s ear, before making two small dots with sharpie pen. She noticed the washable markers were in the bin. She’d rescue those later. “You know, you can’t dye your hair for awhile after you pierce your ear this high.” She says, readying the needle.

“I wasn’t going to, this isn’t like last time, I sw—ANATHEMA!” She had taken the chance and stabbed her boss like it was no big deal. Azra had at least the preservation to not flinch violently away. Anathema was a believer in “surprise piercings”, much to her clients’ _ friends _ delight. “I should not be putting up with you. I am weakened, I am sad, I am hurt by your blatant sadism, I—“

“Besides, Mr. Crowley seems to like your hair a lot the way it is.” She said, oh-so-nonchalantly. This calmed Azra somewhat, if “stunned” was an appropriate synonym for “calmed”.

“What makes you say that?” Azra said, looking up at her with just his eyes as she readied the next needle. He also kept himself situationally aware of the needle.

“Just a feeling. He likes you, won’t admit it to himself though. Dunno if he’s even come out at all.” Anathema sounded a bit sad. “There’s something dark about him, not quite repression but more like a one-sided hide-and-seek.”

“You’re scary when you do that, sometimes.” Azra says, ready for the second piercing this time. It crunched through the cartilage and that was that. The conversation even had a sense of finality to it. Azra was done lying. “I just think I’ve cocked things up rather horribly. What do I do about that, hm?” 

“That’s going to have to be something you work out yourself. I’m not a part of this romance.” Anathema secured the ball-ends of the piercing and wiped him down. “No more piercings until after you talk to him.” She said sternly. Azra nodded, properly scolded. He was lucky to have her as a friend, coworker, and confidant.

“Thank you, my dear girl. I’ll need to think about it some more before I do anything I’ll regret. Again.”

* * *

The shop was rather quiet that day. One of Azra’s clients came in for a touch up on a piece on her shoulder, a bird taking flight, face upturned. As he shaded and outlined, his mind wandered just a little.

Perhaps he was only making himself feel guilt because it didn’t come naturally to him. Azra was at heart, a hedonist, and took pleasure in, well, pleasure. He remembered holding Anthony’s arm steady as he worked on the floral piece. Normally, when he tattooed another, he would fall into an artistic trance, but with Anthony, he was hyper-aware of every small shift of Anthony’s muscles. The man was so strong. _ I wonder just how strong… _

Luckily, his daydreams were mostly family-friendly until the shop closed. As he drank a glass of wine with dinner, he felt his thoughts shift toward a darker corner. Anthony seemed a sensitive enough person, and Azra liked that about him. He wanted to make the man come apart under his hands. He sucked on the piercing in his tongue and downed the rest of his wine, heading off to bed before he started shamelessly wanking to a man he hardly knew.

* * *

_Anthony’s skin was impossibly soft and clean under his tongue. A gentle gasp from above made his lips curl into a smile, and he pressed kisses down his sternum with enthusiasm. Hips squirmed wantonly under his hands, and Azra couldn’t help but squeeze, thumbs digging into sharp hipbones. A _ _surprised moan left those perfect lips, and Azra surged up, slotting their bodies against one another. Lips locked and Azra hungrily drank in Anthony’s moans, biting his lip just to hear his breath stutter. _

_ “Azra, please…” Anthony’s lips were obscene by this point, kissed red and thick with blood. Those golden tawny eyes looked like a supernova’s transformation into a black hole, endlessly deep, wanting more, more, more. _

_“Anything you want, darling. Tell me what you want.” Azra rocked his hips against Anthony’s, further reducing both of their ability to form coherent words, thoughts, anything._

_“Want...I want...I want you.” His voice trembled and his body shook with pleasure, overheating. A blush spread beautifully over Anthony’s chest. Azra reached up and played with a pert, flushed nipple, and latched his mouth over the other. Beautiful long fingers wove their way into ice-blonde locks and tugged, urging Azra on. He sucked and nipped and bit at Anthony’s nipple, and locked eyes as he dragged the solid steel piercing over the sensitive flesh. Anthony threw his head back, gasping in a breath and releasing it on a beautiful song of moans, crying out his pleasure and— _

* * *

Azra woke up abruptly in a sweat, breathing roughly, unevenly. He felt wild, looking about his bedroom desperately, trying to chase the feeling of that dream. His brain cleared finally, and a cold reality set in.

He rolled over onto his front, grabbed a pillow, and screamed every curse he could think of. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Anthony angsts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains elements of past trauma and abuse, negative self-talk, panic attacks, and extremely low self-esteem. If any of these things trigger you, please be warned before reading this chapter. I’ve raised the rating for this work to Teen, but depending on content later on, it may get higher.

Anthony slammed the door to his flat and paced around the sparse living area. There was a large piano in the corner of the room, a glossy black Steinway and Sons piece. A long, rarely used sofa took up the center of the room, bookended by side tables and facing a sleek, mounted television. The whole place oozed brutalist minimalism. Looking too hard at the structural elements hurt, sometimes. To counterbalance the severity of the loft, Anthony had filled practically every surface with potted plants of many sizes. He did not need curtains on the windows, because the greenery provided enough privacy for his liking.

His thoughts were moving far too fast for his feet to keep up with, and he felt a panicked shout bubbling up in his throat against his will. When he swallowed it down, the panic transformed into a sharp tension in his shoulders and back. “Okay, okay,” he said to himself, huffing a breath. “You’re better than this.” He only muttered to himself when he was wound up. “You have a routine. You have things to do. You couldn’t stay. You just...needed to go home. To feed your snake. Water your plants. Yeah. Open shop. Or not open shop.” He grabbed his Levi’s feeding items, hands shaking with the effort not to scream at himself.

Rage and shame, hot and bubbling, filled him up, starting at his feet and moving up his legs and hips. He felt too big for his skin and too small all at once. Levi’s shiny eyes looked up at him from her tank, confused by his manic actions. “Hello, lovely girl.” He said softly to her. The peace lasted just a moment as he fed Levi and refilled her water, before he moved back into his frenetic ministrations. He took the plant mister off its hook and moved through his loft, watering as he went.

“For fuck’s sake, I put you in the sun, I put music on for you, why are you still _dying_?” He snapped at a ficus by a window. It seemed to flinch away as he angrily spritzed its leaves. He whirled on a large monstera plant. “And you! You haven’t split your leaves, do you actually think you’ll make it into a home looking like a bloody flat leaf? You know what, I may as well take a fucking pair of shears to your useless fucking flaps.” He ended his litany of abuse with a spritz. “Maybe that’ll teach you to act like you _should_.”

His anger spurred him on, teetering between very specific plant-based insults and just shouting nonsense at the greenery. He held a tiny cactus in his hand, plucked from the left edge of his black and gold Steinway. He couldn’t find any particularly mean things to say to the cute, spiky bulb, so he settled for leveling it with a glare and a violent stream of water at its soil. He smashed it back to the glossy piano ledge.

He boiled over suddenly. He hurled the mister across the flat, making contact with a framed portrait of the London skyline. The glass over the print shattered into a dozen pieces at impact, and even more when they hit the concrete. “FUCK.” He shouted at the mess. He stalked over to the shards and pushed up his sleeves to pick them up. After gathering a few large pieces in his hands, his eyes caught on the floral design on his forearm. _ Grow through— _

Suddenly, he realized he was gripping the glass too hard and dropped it with a gasp. The bloody pieces tinkled back to the floor, messier than before. And wasn’t that just like Anthony to do, trying to fix the mess he made and instead making it worse. 

Distracted by the blood, Anthony paced to the kitchen, holding the cut on his palm under a steady stream of water. It stung, but he experienced the pain remotely, like it was happening to somebody else. He couldn’t bring his eyes away from the art Azra had made him. The washable markers had smudged just a little under his sleeves, warping some of the finer details and blurring it dreamily. Anthony’s mind calmed down a moment, and he reached out with a wet hand to touch the design.

He drew back as the flowers smudged into nothingness, now a dirty, muddy mess on his arm. Angrily, he grit his teeth and took a dish scrubber and soap, destroying the rest of the beauty. He didn’t deserve any of this. He didn’t need it. Affection, attention, art, he didn’t need that. His anxiety chanted hymns of unworthiness, trapped in the rafters in his mind like cobwebs thrumming with a spider’s step. “So fucking stupid.” He muttered to himself.

He stripped off his shirt, remembering last night in more and more detail. _ Soft hands, careful and strong, holding him down, the cool ink on his skin, blue eyes— _The shame bubbled into an angry flush along his neck and shoulders. He left the broken mess on the floor by the wall and retreated to his bathroom. Meeting his fools’ gold eyes in the mirror, he felt an aching shock grip his spine. He looked tired, hungry, and terrified. His eyes raked hesitantly over the rest of his body, starting with the piece by his face, moving down to the vines over his shoulder and chest. He sucked in a breath, followed by a bout of hyperventilation that left him feeling dizzy, lost, and alone. “Why couldn’t you have just reacted in a regular way? You’ll have to see him again, you fucking bastard.” He starts in on himself with a growl. It felt like someone else was talking to him. The words spilled familiar over his tongue, biting with venomous teeth. Infecting. “Can’t fucking believe you, slut.” His anger said. “Was it worth it, ruining the one person you’ve had an interest in since…” he couldn’t say Eric’s name out loud. Speak of the devil, and all.

His blunt nails dug into the ink, not so much scraping it away as he was leaving more lines of color, an angry, irritated red i slashing through the delicate vines. This was not an erasure, this was teaching himself a lesson of what he could not allow himself to accept. He cranked the shower as hot as it would go, and continued shouting at himself. He was by no means gentle as he removed the lines, words, and colors from his skin. He watched the ink sluice from his body, and suddenly panicked as he stopped it from circling the drain away from him. His foot kept the dirty water from leaving, and he felt his whole body start to shake. Shame won out against rage, mixing with regret and stirring together into a deep-seated sadness that made him feel a hundred times heavier. 

Tears, hot as the tap, fell over his cheeks as the dam broke. The disappearing ink left a sterile, empty feeling in him. His hair fell into his face, making it harder and harder to breathe as his crying turned hysterical, sobbing as he went to his knees. Why did he always have to ruin everything? Would he feel safe enough to open up to someone as wonderful as Azra? His tears offered no comfort, and his cries offered no answers but a mocking, sharp echo against the tiles. 

Eventually he was able to finish his shower, hot water running out and leaving him shivering and alone, just as he’d started. He felt too tight again, but couldn’t cry any more than he had.

There were still a few blue lines along his skin, stained veins where vibrant foliage had twisted and grown once. They were still intersected with the violent scratches he’d left on his body. He looked away, all emotions too much to feel right now. Dressing in comfortable clothes, he walked around his apartment like a ghost, ignoring the angry churning in his gut signaling the meals he’d missed.

He sat at his piano and lifted the cover, testing the pedals and laying his hands on the white keys. He had been playing since he was a child, and had almost given up after his father’s accident, but when he’d leased the Mayfair building, the previous owners had gifted him the Steinway as a housewarming gift. His plants (and Levi) were often treated to private concerts. It was a reaction to his emotional state which had made him sit at the keys, some kind of last-ditch cathartic effort. 

He lifted his hands to the correct position and started to play whatever he needed to hear most. Haltingly, Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata left the instrument, much sharper than he’d intended. Anthony chastised himself for not warming up before playing, old Lady Jane’s voice at the back of his mind telling him to sit up straighter, have some respect for dear dead Ludwig. As he played his way through the familiar arpeggios, scales, and melodies, his mind felt lighter, more in control. The tension in his shoulders remained.

After about an hour of playing, he finally came back to Earth and recalled his regular Friday errands. He grabbed his keys and picked up the mail in the post box on the ground floor. The weather had turned rainy and chilly, but Anthony couldn’t find it in himself to shiver.

There were pieces of junk that went into the bin, a letter from his lawyer noting the settlement stipend he received from the trust, and two more interesting things. The first was from the property management company in Bristol, where he grew most of his plants that couldn’t fit in the shop. He’d only had that nursery for a year. He set the envelope to the side for later and picked up the last item.

It wasn’t a regular letter, not even stamped, but Anthony felt his blood turn to ice as he recognized the sharp edges of a singular letter A on the front. No return address, no other addressee information. With shaking hands, he turned it over, ripping an edge off and revealing the yellow and green card inside. Mocking gold letters read “the grass is greener on our side”. Feeling sicker by the moment, Anthony opened the card. It felt as though the earth gave out beneath his feet, and he was thrust into the freezing void of space. 

“Happy anniversary, love. See you soon. -E”

Anthony hardly made it to the sink before retching.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Azra tries to apologize.

Azra was apologizing to the mirror, feeling his confidence slip away as he furiously scrolled through his phone. At least a dozen hastily-searched articles explained how to apologize, how to make amends, apologizing when you’re unsure of what you’re apologizing about. Forbes said to apologize ‘profusely’. Another site said one should apologize as soon as the indiscretion is identified. Azra just knew it was becoming a Situation the longer he put off talking to Anthony about what has happened.

“Anthony… Erm, hello. How are you? No…” he shook his head and sucked on his tongue piercing. “Listen. I’m sorry for how things got while we were, er, getting to know one another…” he nodded. That sounded right. “And I hope I didn’t offend you too much by moving too fast. M’point is…” Azra stood at a loss, here.

What exactly _ was _ his point? He was apologizing because he wanted to really get into Anthony’s extraordinarily tight pants, yes, but he was also apologizing because he had not felt the chill he got from Anthony’s absence since he’d lived with his parents. That chill had wrapped itself around his spine uncomfortably tight, and he hated feeling as though he’d done something wrong. He shivered the feeling off and started again.

“I’m sorry for how things got while we were just getting to know one another. I hope my behavior didn’t offend you. I would like to…” _ oh, bugger. _ “I would like to shag you into next week! How does that sound?” His mind conjured up a horrified Anthony reacting to his advances, and he sighed and dropped to the couch nearby. “I’d like to...I’d like…”

The radio overhead interrupted his thoughts.

_ I’d like for you and I to go romancing… _

“You know? I’m just going to wing this.”

* * *

The note sat on the front desk of the floral shop. Anthony and Marina glared at it in silence, both willing it to disappear, for this to be some cosmic joke. The note remained. Marina had dealt with Eric once or twice, and had to handle the fallout of Anthony’s emotional turmoil every time. She was uneasy over the entire situation. Eric was a dangerous man, she knew, and Anthony wasn’t used to standing up to him, even for his own safety. 

“And this showed up a few days ago?” Marina asked, already knowing the answer. Anthony nodded, straightening up to his full height.

“Got these this morning, too.” He reached into the trash behind the counter and pulled out a typical heart-shaped box of chocolates. The sight of them made him feel ill. Valentine’s Day wasn’t for a few months, anyway, so this must have been specially shopped for. “Bold bastard.” He muttered.

“Have you thought about setting up a camera? If anything happens, you’ll want something to back you up in court.” Marina pointed out. She worried Anthony would do something brash and thoughtless, and would further expose himself to Eric’s attempts. She had just popped into the shop to check on Anthony; she almost regretted taking so much time off at a time like this. 

“Don’t wanna feel watched all the time, I already feel that way from this rubbish.” Anthony felt the paranoia and anxiety manifest itself in his neck and shoulders, body coiling itself like a snake ready to strike. 

Someone walked by the shopfront, looking too casual, too interested in the inside. Anthony’s hair stood on end, heart stopped in his chest, until the person passed by the frosted glass front. Couldn’t have been Eric. Eric would have walked straight inside to confront him about the situation he’d created.

Marina attempted to calm Anthony down over it all, trying to convince him to only take online orders and not open the shop for a few more days. “Maybe you can get out of town for a bit?” She suggested.

“He’d follow me. He found me here.” He winced. His heart gave another flop into the inside of his ribs as the now-familiar pedestrian walked past the shopfront again. “Okay, who is that? They’ve been walking in front of the shop for fifteen bloody minutes.” He snapped, making Marina wince.

“I’ll go ch—“ 

“I’ve got it.” Anthony stalked towards the door, unlocking the front and nearly running straight into the curious onlooker. A shock of white hair swished in shock, before bright blue eyes looked up at Anthony. _ Oh for fucking crying out loud. _

“Anthony!” Azra seemed far too excited for the situation. Anthony felt relief force its way through his veins. At least it wasn’t Eric. “I didn’t know if you were in, today. I was just in the neighborhood, and—“

“I know you’ve been pacing outside the last quarter of an hour.” Anthony transformed his anxiety into anger. “Why are you stalking me?” He walked inside, and Azra followed. Marina watched quietly and curiously from the desk area. 

Azra sputtered over his words, unsure of where this accusation was coming from. “Well I was a bit nervous, I’m not, why would I be, I’m not stalking you.” He wrung his hands in front of him, concentrating on not picking at the fraying bit of his old mustard sweater. It had been the one Anthony had first met him in. Not exactly the best choice for the icy, chilly weather that had swept in the night before, but it kept him on task for today’s goal. “I didn’t mean to alarm you, I am truly sorry for worrying you.” He looked crestfallen. This wasn’t how he’d wanted this exchange to go at all. 

Anthony’s anger merged further with embarrassment. “Yes, well, we’re closed. So what do you want.” Marina’s eyes widened. Anthony never snapped at people like this. Who was this little cherubic guy?

“I.” Azra swallowed. “I wanted to apologize to you about...about my behavior last week. I was out of line, and I do hope I did not offen—“

“Yeah, whatever. You probably say that to everyone that comes in.” Anthony snarled. He started aggressively trimming a fern. “Hey, yeah, let’s get a tattoo, wanna go for drinks? Oh, let's get this one plastered and half-naked in a dentist's chair—“

“That was _ not _ what I was—“

“What’d you think you were going to get me to do that night anyway, hm? Just gonna pull me up to the flat for a quick shag, and—“

“Anthony, that wasn’t what I was—“

“Probably just boring as hell to you, you wanna get a quick fuck—“

“_Anthony.” _Marina’s voice cut through the bickering, and froze the moment in time. Anthony had a nasty expression pulling at his features, and Azra looked close to tears, visibly upset and anxious. “Maybe you should go run that order a little early. I can handle shop.” Her words did not offer any opportunity for a question.

“Fine. Don’t stay long.” He threw down the pruning shears and stalked away. The shop held a tense silence for a few seconds, before the sound of an engine turning over shook them out of it.

“Okay.” Marina said, looking over to Azra. Her eyes pierced his soul, and reminded him of Anathema greatly. “I don’t know what all that was about, but I know he had an adventurous night of drinking and he tends to regret pretty much every decision he makes when he’s drunk. I’m Marina.” Her smile could have housed fangs, for all Azra could tell.

“Azra. Azra Fell.” He introduced himself. “I really. I didn’t. We didn’t do anything outside of. Well I’m a body artist, you see, and he was just so nervous about what his tattoo would look like, and I offered to draw it right on him. I didn’t want him to drive home like that, so…”

Marina’s eyes softened. “And he left in the morning. No note.” She finished. “I understand why you’d want to come make amends.”

Azra sighed. “This has all gone rather pear-shaped. Had a whole speech and everything.”

“If there’s one thing Anthony is particularly good at, it’s dashing plans and turning expectations right on their heads.” She held up the envelope with the single A on the front. “He’s in a bit of a stressful state. Some personal things happening.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’m afraid I just made things worse.”

Fate seemed to own a rather clever timepiece. Just as Azra had finished his sentence, a rather loud, horrible crash rang out from down the street. It made Azra and Marina’s blood run cold, it had been a long time since either had been in proximity to an auto accident. Without saying a word, the two of them rushed outside the shop and around a corner.

They took in the flurry of snow, smoke, and glass that surrounded the scene. Metal had wrapped itself around a light pole, the impact leaving stuttering streaks on the icy cement. The truck hardly looked like a truck anymore, with most of the front half of the engine completely decimated. The horn was stuck playing, most likely from the head resting against the steering wheel. They both recognized the shock of red hair standing out from the bleak scene instantly. 

_ Anthony. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short but important update! I’ll be working on this more as finals week ends, so keep an eye out!
> 
> Also note: the next few chapters are going to get stupid heavy and may contain distressing content, which I will denote in the tags as I go. Thanks!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An injury.

There was a large, heavy silence before they started running. Cars were already starting to honk at whatever was holding them up now, and Azra didn’t think he was breathing. Had he any awareness of his own body, he would have noticed the sharp pain in his chest, worry made physical. He would have felt his hands steady their trembling and ball into fists, punching the air at his sides to make the world something different.

Without any regard to their own safety, Marina and Azra reached the crumpled remains of the truck. Smoke was starting to belch out from the bonnet, and an awful dripping noise mingled with the crunching tinkle of window glass underfoot. “Anthony!” Marina was the first to regain use of her voice. She swore a few times and tried the door. “It’s stuck!” She sounded panicked.

Azra saw nothing but red, panic incarnate. In one blurry moment, the door flew off its hinges, hanging at an angle off of the rest of the truck like a clothing tag. Blood pounded in his ears as his hands fluttered about Anthony, a version of a blessing he had no familiarity receiving or giving.

Marina was calling emergency services, barking their location into her phone while Azra unclipped Anthony’s seatbelt, peeling it back from where part of it had cut into his neck, leaving a dark red mark on his skin. What was left of the windshield was a mouth of glass teeth, stalactites and stalagmites in a gaping maw of twisted metal. Azra noted that the airbag looked older than he did, and it had only half-inflated, resulting in a nasty gash on Anthony’s forehead, along with multiple smaller cuts from the shattered glass. His left eye was already starting to swell—he must have broken something in his face. Azra lifted the man out of the smoking car, supporting his shoulders and under his knees.

A crowd was forming on the sidewalk near the wreckage, and Azra would have heard the sound of approaching sirens, had he the capacity to care for anything else. He noticed Anthony’s hand had little shards, tiny splinters, sticking out of it. He was bewildered by this. Marina came up just as the ambulance was turning a corner. “He had a pincushion cactus in the front seat, the idiot. The thing was bloody strapped in like a child.” She was crying, but Azra said nothing. Anthony did seem to be breathing, which was what was important. Blood gently oozed from the cut on his forehead. Azra ruined the cuff of his sweater by applying pressure.

Just as the truck door had been a blur, it was a blur when the ambulance came and took Anthony to the hospital. Azra rode in Marina’s car numbly, staring at the dark stain on his sweater sleeve.

Marina was only crying a little bit by the time Anthony was put into surgery. They waited it out in the receiving room.

Was Anthony going to make it out okay? What if the last thing they’d said to one another was shouted in anger, steeped in miscommunication? Azra felt awful. He couldn’t shake the image of that beautiful face, twisted at him in anger and distrust. Expressionless, bloodied, and broken. He knew he’d be haunted by this for a long time.

“You know, it’s a little strange that you’d wanna stick around this long.” Marina commented, handing over a tea she’d gotten from the cafeteria. They hadn’t heard anything about Anthony yet.

“I don’t believe I could quite live with myself if I left. I want him to be alright.” Azra tiredly answered. “It’s why I even came over. I didn’t know if he wanted anything to do with me after that night.” He sighed. “I suppose he wouldn’t even want to see me, anyway. It’s silly that I came, you’re right.”

“No! Not what I meant.” Marina said, keeping him from standing up. “I just meant...Anthony doesn’t even usually keep people at arm’s length, let alone close enough to have them care about him.”

“I suppose it’s one of my character flaws, then.” Azra replied, smiling sadly. “You mentioned earlier he was rather upset by something. I hope it wasn’t me.”

“It wasn’t,” she sighed. “I don’t know if I should even be telling you this, but…” Marina rolled her eyes, probably asking for Anthony’s forgiveness ahead of time. “Anthony’s ex. Eric. He’s been in and out of his life ever since they broke it off. He’s been stalking him around London for pretty much ever. And he just sent a stupid card saying he’ll be coming out of the woodwork again rather soon. I don’t know the absolute full story, nobody but Anthony knows, but Eric did some pretty awful things to him.”

“That’s horrible. I...I didn’t know that.” _That’s probably why he high-tailed it out of your flat, you absolute bellend._

“It’s not your fault. He probably is more averse to romantic relationships than anybody else I’ve ever met before.” She leveled him with a pointed look, and Azra’s face went up in a quick blush.

“Romantic—?” His voice choked right out of him. “I mean. We were. I just. He wanted to get a tattoo.” He croaked.

“Sure, sure, love.” Marina smugly crossed her legs and sipped her tea.

They both looked up just as a tall woman entered the waiting room with an air of magnetic authority. She had long, thick auburn hair and gleaming hazel eyes. Her skin was free of wrinkles, as if she never frowned, and never smiled. She was in high heels, which only brought her tall frame closer to the fluorescent lights. Her cheekbones could cut ice and her short, red fingernails meant nothing but business. She was beautiful and terrifying. All eyes seemed to slide over to her as she stormed the reception area. “I’m here for Anthony Jay Crowley.” Marina and Azra shared a surprised look. Today just seemed to get more and more interesting.

“We haven’t heard anything.” Marina stood, the first to recover. The woman’s eyes slid over Marina’s body, assessing and piercing. There was no guessing what the woman was thinking. “Who are you?” Marina was a brave woman.

“I’m his mother.”

It was a very quiet moment, indeed. From what Anthony had told Azra over drinks (what felt like years ago) his mother had abandoned him and his father when Anthony was three. He hadn’t heard from her ever since.

“Why are you here?” Marina finally elicited an appropriate facial expression, disgust.

“Didn’t you hear? I’m his mother. My son is in the hospital.” She stepped toward their little corner.

“You don’t know your son. You haven’t known your son for 25 years.” Azra surprised even himself by speaking up. Marina radiated gratitude for the backup. Two on one, in fact, was better than one on one.

“I don’t owe any explanation to you. My absence is between me and Anthony.”

“Yeah, between you. You don’t get to decide when to see him now, he’s an adult.” Marina piped up. The three of them go back and forth until Anthony’s mother gives up.

“You’ll regret this.” She says. She leaves her card at the reception with ‘strict instructions’ to call her when Anthony is out of surgery. Azra and Marina stared at the nurse on duty until she tore the card up.

“Thank you.” Marina said, exhausted. “First Eric, now Lilith Kallaghan waltzes back into his life like she has a seat at the table.”

“She seems very unpleasant.”

“She’s a journalist. She values answers over bedside manner.”

Another half hour passed before a doctor walked out. “Crowley?” She announced to the waiting room. Marina and Azra stood and walked, wobbly, to where she was waiting.

“He’s out of surgery, we can take you back now.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr at [imnotokiedokey](https://imnotokiedokey.tumblr.com) if you want to come say hello! Comments and kudos are appreciated, this is my first Good Omens fic!


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